Lord Voldemort and the Aftermath of Such An Action
by jinglebellsisawesome
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Lord Voldemort is transported across time to witness the consequences of his actions.
1. The Diary

A/N: I had this thought come to me a while ago and would not go away so I have decided to write it all down so I can stop thinking about it. I hope you enjoy it. This may contain some angst in it at some point so just be warned.

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><p>Chapter One: The Diary<p>

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><p>Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle stood outside, loitering in the unending corridors that appeared to stretch out forever. They seemed to loom over his small frame, engulfing him and swallowing up his fear, anger and sadness hungrily. He went to shiver but stopped himself short. He didn't trust anyone to let them see his emotions.<p>

Dozens upon dozens of students were busy rolling their way to their dormitories; to their detentions; to their common rooms, but Tom simply stood in the middle of the heated crowd, letting students and teachers alike to wash over him and swallow him whole.

It wasn't long before he was the only person left standing. When all of the other people had finished their jobs and got on with what they referred to as '_life_'; Tom would be the only standing. The only one.

Tom heard footsteps grow nearer behind him and he fought the goosebumps threatening to overtake his being. He didn't like it when people snuck up on him from behind; it reminded him of his time in Wool's Orphanage in the not-so-distant past.

"Ah, Mr Riddle. And how are you on this fine summer's evening?"

Tom recognised the old, worn out voice instantly. It belonged to the Transfiguration teacher; Albus Dumbledore. Against Tom's better judgement, he had started to harbour a deep resentment for the Professor. Those blue orbs always seemed to peer deep into him, as if they could pierce through his soul and drink in his deep, dark secrets. Especially after dear old Hagrid's 'retirement', Dumbledore had seem more than keen to keep a 'closer eye on him'.

And Tom hated it.

He could see the suspicion and mistrust in the older man's gaze whenever they would brush each other when walking to and fro their different places. Tom could see the accusation, as plain as day to him, hidden deep within the older man's aquamarine eyes when Hagrid was given the sack. And that caused the fifth year student to feel something that others may have described as..._afraid_.

And Tom hated feeling that way.

So, without turning around to see the old man's face, Tom answered in a voice that displayed no emotion, "I was just thinking, Professor."

"I think that's very wise, Tom. If you ask me, I think that more students would benefit more if they just thought things through correctly, wouldn't you agree?"

Tom turned around then, coming face-to-face with Professor Dumbledore. The Transfiguration teacher was wearing the same old, grey robes as he usually wore but Tom liked the familiarity of his clothing. It was something to always be associated with him. He gazed up into the old man's weary face. His blue orbs displayed so much emotion in them that it was hard for Tom not to get carried away attempting to dissect them with his mind.

Tom noticed the mountain of books perched untidily on the Professor's hands and Tom frowned, wondering where he was planning to take them.

"I fully agree, Professor," Tom said at last. "Professor, if you don't mind me asking, where are you planning to take all of those books?"

Dumbledore looked pleasantly surprised at the odd question but he quickly mended his expression. "I was just off to take these back to the library." He said wearily, his distrust of the boy in front of him easy to see for Tom.

Tom smiled pleasantly. "I was just heading there myself. Would you like me to help you with some of those books of yours, Professor?"

He tried his best to appear as innocent and charming as possible under Dumbledore's scrutinising gaze.

Finally, the old man relented and handed him some of the books. He explained that the books came from some of the other teachers who could not be bothered to bring them back themselves.

Tom observed the cover of one: _"Hogwarts: A History_" was engraved in the front and Tom tried to disguise his laughter. He had read that book in his first year. No guesses which Hogwarts professor would steal the information out of that instead of using their own knowledge.

The walk to the library was an easy task made harder by the bearded man's mistrust of him. Tom tried his best attempts to charm the Transfiguration teacher but it was in vain. Dumbledore did not let anything slip accidentally. So Tom took to studying his eyes whenever he asked a pointless, dull question that was laced with hidden meanings. The only thing he had managed to decipher was the man's obvious tiredness and fatigue.

When they reached the library, Tom volunteered to put the books back where they belonged. He could see that Dumbledore would not be swayed so easily so he instead tempted the old man with hidden jibes at his obvious fatigue. Finally, he relented and quickly exited the library.

Tom managed to successfully place the teacher's books back where they came from - even managing to pass through the forbidden section - and, when he had finished, he pulled out on of the old, worn out wooden chairs and sat down in it.

He pulled his thick, black diary out of his second-hand robes, courtesy of an undetectable extension charm, and he peered down at it thoughtfully. He remembered what Professor Slughorn had told him previously, at the end of one of his infamous Slug Club's.

His Basilisk had already done the necessary murder needed to complete a Horcrux...now all Tom had to do was to split his own soul.

_You're only going to be splitting your own soul_, Tom muttered to himself as he fiddled with the front cover of his diary. _How hard could that be?_

However, for all of his enthusiasm and self-motivational skills, he could not figure out the proper way to split one's soul. After a short while of trying, he let out an aggravated groan and placed his head in his hands as he struggled to arrange his thoughts into a deep, logical path.

After what seemed like an age, Tom finally grasped a single, logical thought that would prove helpful to him. Snatching up an old quill that a student had left behind, Tom opened up the first page of the diary and wrote down the one question that was plaguing him so much:

_How does one split one's own soul?_

Tom chewed his lip thoughtfully before replying to his question.

_The same way as a man is elected to be a Minister of Magic. Through tremendous amounts of power._

Tom frowned as he wrote down the next sentence, unsure why he was even writing it but knowing better than to disrupt the mind's logical way of sorting out important information and working through difficult scenarios. _  
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_But what would the aftermath be of such an action?_

He had barely finished writing his out-of-character thought before a white hot light started to emerge between the middle of the diary. Tom watched, utterly fascinated, by the light as it started to engulf the whole of his diary before finally moving on to him.

He gasped at the unfamiliar sensation that started to spread across his skin like a infectious disease. Like a raving fire that would stop at nothing to achieve its goals.

...And Tom Marvolo Riddle, the future Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord, was immersed in blinding white-hot light and transported across time and space through his own diary to witness, first-hand, the consequences of his actions.


	2. Transported in Time

A/N: Thank you for all the feedback. I really appreciate it and I am so glad that you liked the first chapter. I hope you all like this next instalment.

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><p>Chapter Two: Transported in Time<p>

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><p>Tom fell forward with a lurch, flying himself head-first into a massive, wet, soggy pile of water-logged grass and overgrown weeds.<p>

_Eurgh,_ Tom moaned internally as he muttered a quick drying spell. _This place is disgusting._

Wiping away any residual water droplets, Tom cast a look at his surroundings, trying to figure out where he was. All he could see was mostly cast in thick, dark shadows obscuring anything that may be hiding underneath. However, even if the Sun was shining, Tom was certain he still wouldn't be able to pinpoint or recognise anything.

Tom frowned as he replayed his final moments before being sent to this Godforsaken place. He briefly wondered whether this was the makings of some of the younger Slytherin students as a "prank" to get rid of him but he quickly dismissed the thought. Being the highly skilled Wizard that he was he would have been able to detect the remnants of the students' weak magic.

..._Unless it wasn't a student._

Tom pondered this possible theory for a while, weighing the possibilities.

_There is only one person who I can think who would dare do such a thing as this,_ he reflected. _Dumbledore. __But even he wouldn't dare so such a thing as this for fear of his precious position. After all, he wouldn't want to end up like dear old Hagrid._

"Going somewhere?"

The accusing tone and the voice caused Tom to stop dead in his tracks. The distance from him and the voice told him that the statistical probability was that he wasn't even talking to him but you can never be too sure.

Cupping one of his hands to his ear, he leant forward slightly to confirm whether or not his suspicions were correct.

"No one else is going to do...not for me."

_So they weren't talking to me_, he realised but immediately frowned. The boy who had just spoken had seemed agitated and regretful - and he had spoken about death and dying. Why?

Using the unmasked voices as a guide, he edged closer and closer until he was near enough to start making out their faces.

There were two boys, looking roughly about a few years older than Tom himself. The boy closest to him had a thick dropping of raven-black coloured hair and a startling pair of sea-blue eyes that reminded the fifth year of his Transfiguration teacher back at Hogwarts. Peering closer, he could tell that the unnamed boy also donned a pair of round-rimmed glasses and a bag was loosely slung over his shoulder. The boy seemed agitated, distressed. Tom could read the boys face through every wrinkle, every freckle. _But why was he so agitated? What could a boy of his age possibly be agitated about? Failing his NEWTs?_

The other boy, a ginger-haired freckle-coated lad, had an almost dirty look about him. His jaw looked as though it hadn't been shaved in over a month. Tom absent-mindedly placed a hand on his noticeably bare jaw. He hadn't been gifted with facial hair at the ripe old age of sixteen.

Tom noticed the raven-haired boy still had the Trace on him, signalling that he hadn't yet reached seventeen years of age. However the other boy didn't have it._  
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"For you?" the ginger boy asked, shocked. "You think Mad-Eye died for _you_? You think George took that curse for _you_?" Tom didn't have a clue who half those people mentioned were but didn't have time to work it out. "You may be the Chosen One, mate, but this is a whole lot bigger than that."

Tom's eyes widened to the size of saucers. '_The Chosen One'..._he mused. _How does one become a 'Chosen One'?_

Tom held his breath as he eavesdropped on their conversation, hoping that they would let something slip that could explain how to become a chosen one._  
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"Come with me," the raven-haired boy said suddenly.

"What? And leave Hermione? Are you mad? We wouldn't last two days without her!"

The over-age ginger boy looked around after his short outburst. "Don't tell her I said that."

Tom almost snorted out loud at this boy's obvious ego problem but held his tongue. He didn't want to blow his cover.

The two, unfortunately, didn't mention any more on the subject of the 'Chosen One', but instead, they shed some light on the subject of Horcruxes. That word piqued Tom's interest although they didn't say anything remotely helpful about how to create one or even, how to destroy one since they both seemed too preoccupied with figuring out where they are and destroying them. Tom briefly wondered whose soul was split to create those Horcruxes.

However, Tom picked up on this '_him__'_ that kept recurring during their conversation. The emotions accompanying this '_him'_ were ones one normally associated with hatred, fear and some sadness that only seemed to fuel their rage. He pondered why someone would be hated this much and deduced that he might be the new Minister of Magic or someone in authority. He knew that many of his fellow students didn't respond well to authority figures.

He noticed that the two boys had reconciled and were heading back in the direction from, presumably, whence they came. The ginger boy now took the other boy's bag and wore it on his shoulder. Tom, deciding that he didn't have anything better to do, made to follow them but not too close so they could see him.

He hung back, a few feet behind them, but not too far so that he couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Do you think he knows?" the ginger one asked. The other turned his head halfway but didn't respond. "I mean, they're bits of his soul, the Horcruxes," he elaborated. "Bits of him. When Dumbledore destroyed the ring and–"

Tom was listening in to the conversation so much so that he wasn't checking where he was going and tripped on a rock, landing head-first in a large water ditch, completely missing what the ginger one had said.

_For Merlin's Beard!_ he exclaimed internally. _How much water can one place hold?_

He pulled himself up and murmured under his breath the dry-cleaning spell for the second time this evening. When he was all dry, he glanced over at the two boys to see whether they had come to investigate the commotion that Tom had caused, but when he gazed over at them, they were still in deep conversation with each other.

Tom felt the beginnings of a frown. His falling over wasn't exactly the quietest thing in the Wizarding World and so he was surprised when, not only had they not decided to investigate the tell-tale noise of someone following them, but they hadn't even turned their heads to even _check_.

_Something's not right here_, Tom deduced. _And I'm going to find out what._ He resolved determinedly as he stalked the two boys into the unknown.


	3. Reaching New Lows

A/N: Thanks for the response I have gotten from this story. I hope this chapter is to your liking. I do not own anything to do with the _Harry Potter _franchise; books or otherwise and I apologise for the lateness of this chapter. I hope y'all like it.

I debated with myself whilst writing this chapter and I'm still not sure whether I like it but it'll have to do otherwise I'll continue on forever trying to rewrite it. So I'm apologising in advance if anything is a bit dodgy.

Oh, also, for the transfiguration bit, I got some of the information from the Harry Potter wiki so I cannot take any credit for coming up with that.

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><p>Chapter Three: Reaching New Lows<p>

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><p>Tom stalked the two boys from whence they came. No, not stalked. Followed. Yeah, he <em>followed<em> the two boys from whence they came. He kept a mindful distance away from them so as to not draw any attention to himself; after all, there was no telling what they might do to him. He may have been a powerful Wizard but it was just wishful thinking to think that he could beat two boys who both appeared to be older than him, and, he assumed, probably more like their friend _'__Hermione_', in a fight.

His suspicions were proven true as he came across a tall, wooden building that barely looked capable to stand up on its own without toppling over from the slightest breeze. Tom stopped himself from snorting. It was exactly the kind of shambles one would expect two dirty, rugged boys to coop out in.

As they neared the opening, Tom heard one of the boys whisper alohomora under their breath. Tom frowned thoughtfully; maybe these boys were not so useless after all.

The door opened with a creak, allowing the two boys to enter. Thankfully, the door was pretty slow on shutting so Tom was able to quickly squeeze through; however, just before it shut, it managed to brush against Tom although Tom didn't feel anything. It seemed that the door went straight through him as if he wasn't there.

_That's impossible_, Tom thought. Little did he realise just how possible it actually was.

Glancing around at his new surroundings, a fresh wave of disgust swept across him. He severely doubted his earlier theories about this place belonging to powerful wizards and witches. Where was the gold? The many many plaques displaying how powerful they were? His lip curled in disgust. This was more _cosy_ than anything. He shook his head. Powerful wizards and witches weren't _cosy, _they were sure, deadly, _powerful_. They traded in the cosiness and niceties for power and control. More productive things than just being nice.

A pained moan broke out against the silence that had befallen the house, alerting Tom to the possibility that he wasn't as alone as he thought.

Tom's gaze was directed to the couch. His previous assessment of the couch just being very poorly decorated in dull, grey colours and a mas of orange towards the top was dismissed as, upon further inspection, Tom found that the couch was acting as a bed for an older boy (older than Tom and the two boys from outside) and that the dull greys and blues were the clothes he was wearing and the ginger mess was his hair with a dark red patch towards his ear. He looked like the previous ginger boy he stalked; except this one was older. Though didn't appear to be any less immature.

Tom fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose against the foul, strong-smelling blood staining the older boy's ginger hair (_not that it would have made much a difference_). To do so would be giving these unknown wizards a sign of weakness and if there was anything Tom hated more than Professor Dumbledore, it would be weakness.

The boy moaned once again. Tom was at a complete loss of what to do. He was concerned that if the blood-stained boy continued his persistent moaning then it would alert one of the other wizards or witches who resided here. That was the last thing Tom needed.

He took a quick glance around for something, _anything_, that could possibly shut him up but it was futile. All he could see were multiple blood-stained bandages on the corner of the nearest table. Tom briefly entertained the possibility of smothering him with one of the strong-smelling bandages but grudgingly accepted that that is out of the question. It just wouldn't do to murder one of his unknowing hosts on his first night. It simply wasn't proper etiquette.

And singing a sickly sweet lullaby was also, most assuredly, out of the question. So that just left one more possibility: soothing him back to sleep.

Reluctantly, and at great personal cost, Tom perched on the very edge of the chair, trying his hardest not to cringe at touching anything to do with this..._dump. _He sighed, careful not to sigh too loudly or else _he'll_ be the one to end up alerting the others in this house.

When the boy let out another long, drawn out moan, Tom quickly moved into action. He reached over to place a hand over the boy's mouth but decided against it; he didn't want to infect himself from this germ-infested boy. Instead, he sighed deeply and shifted slightly to try and get more comfortable. _If I'm going to do this, then I'd better get on with it._

He coughed lightly to clear away any mucus blocking his throat, as he always did whenever he was called to read something or to say a speech about how grateful the students were to be given this opportunity to learn, and recalled something he read in one of his study books about Transfiguration. After all, that was his least liked subject (mainly due to the teacher) and he wouldn't want to waste one of his favourite books on something as trivial as this.

"Transfiguration: the art of transforming the form or appearance of an object or person, via the alteration of the object's molecular structure..."

And so Tom carried on. Reliving the moments he spent studying that book and saying them all on a whim. It felt like he was doing a marathon, trying to recall all the detail from all of the Hogwarts books on Transfiguration he possessed. He was almost positive that the boy in front of him wasn't fanatic about Transfiguration and probably wouldn't appreciate Tom sitting there, informing him of the principals, but he didn't much care. As long as it got the ginger boy to shut up, then that was the main thing.

After a while, the boy's breathing subsided to normality and his night terrors gradually ceased. Tom felt like breathing a sigh of relief at the noticeable change in the boy. He broke off his retelling of Transfiguration as he stretched out his limbs. They had gotten all stiff and clamped shut whilst he was calming the boy down.

He stood up to stretch his legs and took a quick glance around at his surroundings. The slightly strange clock on the dusty mantelpiece told him that it was 1:04am. _Great__. I have wasted time that I could have used sleeping, for this stupid, ignorant ginger-haired boy who probably doesn't even know a werewolf from an animagus_. Tom almost snickered at his own joke but refrained for obvious reasons.

As if on cue, Tom felt a yawn begin to well up in him and he struggled furiously to keep it contained. He looked around for somewhere to hide and somewhere he could steal a few blankets and cushions so he can take a quick nap without being caught.

He quickly found his requested items (having stole them from the chair he currently occupied) and glanced around for a small cupboard or hidden chamber, perhaps, much like the one that inhabited Hogwarts.

He managed to find a small broom cupboard that benefited his needs – although he wasn't entirely sure that it was able to fit all of him in it. Holding back a groan of his own, Tom managed to walk through the already-opened door and find a dark space in there for himself. He didn't bother closing the door as he couldn't be certain that the Wizards and Witches that occupied this house were not powerful, so he decided not to underestimate his competitors and would keep the door open so it wouldn't seem as if anything is out of the ordinary.

So he had to be extra careful to conceal himself in the shadows and angle himself so that anybody peeking inside wouldn't be able to tell that there was an added guest living here.

He sprawled out the few blankets he had managed to collect and laid one down on the floor and the other to go over the top of him. He then grabbed the cushions he found and placed them directly underneath his head. He had briefly entertained the idea of just casting a spell to make him a bed but decided against it. He didn't want to give these people any evidence of magic being used that wasn't their own.

The last thought flitting through his head as he felt himself slip into the deepest recesses of his mind was; _At least I can finally prove Professor Dumbledore wrong when we next have Transfiguration._


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